


hit and run

by twinktomlinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Harry, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Confusion, Drinking, Hand Jobs, Height Differences, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, Writer Louis, well a script writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:47:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinktomlinson/pseuds/twinktomlinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is an actor and Louis is a scriptwriter who's been pining basically forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written an AU before and i also suck at writing smut so i apologize in advance.

Upon hindsight, he really should have known it would be a bad idea.

The dance floor is a writhing mass of hot, sweaty bodies moving to the rhythm of the latest pop songs. Bright, colorful strobes of light cut across darkness as they make their way across the dance floor. Someone is dancing behind Louis, hips moving back and forth in a fast beat, and Louis—

—is kissing the lead actor of their newly-commissioned television show like a man desperate for water after an eternity in the desert, hips grinding against the other man’s—though whether it’s because of the fast music or because of the hardness in his pants, he doesn’t quite know. All rational thought has fled his mind—all he knows is that it feels good, right here, kissing the hell out of the Harry Styles, famous actor and beautiful, beautiful man. His hands are everywhere, touching everything he can touch, a part of him fearing that Harry will disappear if his hands aren’t on him even though he knows that will not happen.

Between shared breaths and deep kisses, he manages to gasp out, “your place or mine?”

Harry sounds absolutely wrecked, his voice low and rough, when he says, “mine.”

Goosebumps appear on Louis' skin when he hears Harry’s voice, guttural. Louis imagines he can just come from the way Harry says mine, imagines he can just ride the waves of orgasm merely by imagining that it’s him Harry’s talking about when he says mine.

He’s drunk, he knows. He knows it from the way everything just moves a little more than they should, from the way his head is spinning. He wants to say that if he were stone cold sober, he wouldn’t be fantasizing about kissing the Harry Styles, but he knows he can’t quite say that, not even if he was drugged and nothing in the world made sense anymore. He’s had this attraction to Harry since forever—he just hadn’t acted on it because he always thought Harry was straight. Louis can’t deny that Harry’s a little out of his league as well. Now that he has sufficient liquid courage though, he is not afraid to touch and take, to please and be pleased.

Harry grabs his hand and walks out of the club, Louis in tow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Louis thinks they should probably say goodbye to the rest of their coworkers first, but the thought is abandoned in favor of thinking about whether or not he still has those condoms in his wallet.

Outside, the air is cool on Louis’ skin. His head clears a little, and he realizes neither of them can drive.

“Hey,” he says, his voice slurring a bit. “We can’t drive.”

Harry looks at him, blinking twice before nodding. With how much Harry drank, Louis isn’t surprised that it took a few seconds for Harry to understand what he was saying.

Harry puts his hand up and flags a taxi, one hand still holding Louis’. Louis is a little cold now, and he finds that he wants to hug Harry and share body heat with him. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he enters the taxi and waits for Harry to enter as well so they can kiss again. Louis likes the kissing—Harry tastes of mint, and he smells nice.

After a few moments, Harry stops, panting. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, and Louis nods. He’s never been surer of anything in his life. He wants this—he had always wanted this. Harry didn’t have to ask.

Harry probably isn’t satisfied with Louis' nod because after a few more seconds, he says, “tell me,” his voice soft and pleading.

“I want this.” Louis' voice is rough. “I really, really want this.”

Harry tells the driver his address, quick but precise, his voice unwavering, before putting one hand behind Louis' neck and kissing him. Louis' lips part under the assault, a moan escaping his lips.

They get to Harry’s apartment complex too soon for Louis' liking. He doesn’t complain, though, because in a few minutes he knows they’ll be able to continue this in Harry’s bed.

He watches Harry practically throw a few too many bills in the driver’s direction before closing the door and walking, his hand holding Louis'.

The doorman opens the glass doors, and Harry walks inside. The writer in Louis thinks that Harry has the ability to just walk into a room and fill it with his presence without even trying; the man in Louis just thinks about where the elevator is so they can get to Harry’s as fast as possible.

Not too soon, they’re in Harry’s apartment, or rather, penthouse. If Louis wasn’t as turned on as he is right now, he probably would have paid more attention to the clean, sleek lines of Harry’s living space—all glass and stainless steel and chrome-plated fixtures—but right now, he pays absolutely no attention to anything but Harry and the way he feels under Louis' hands and lips.

They don’t make it to the bed.

They make it as far as Harry’s black leather couch, refusing to walk any further. Louis lies on the couch and Harry lies on top of him, and soon enough, their clothes are scattered on the floor. It feels too hot and it feels like the heat isn’t enough and Louis doesn’t want to stop doing this. He is drunk on tequila and he is drunk on Harry and he doesn’t want to stop touching every bit of Harry he can touch.

He wants this. He always has, and he thinks he always will.

Louis' cock is hard against his stomach, and when Harry moves against him, he moans and stops looking at where Harry’s dick slides against him, choosing to just lean his head back on the armrest. Every nerve ending feels just that bit more responsive, his skin sensitive to Harry’s touches. When Harry bends his head to suck on Louis' collarbone, he has to bite his lip to stop himself from screaming.

After a few more minutes, Louis realizes that he can’t not watch. He looks at Harry, looks at the sweat dripping from his shoulders, and thinks that the moonlight streaming from Harry’s glass wall makes him look that much more beautiful.

Harry looks ethereal.

When Louis comes, it isn’t too long before Harry comes as well, the penthouse filling with groans and moans. Harry bends his head so his and Louis' foreheads are touching, and he says, “if we sleep here, we’ll be uncomfortable tomorrow.”

Louis doesn’t want to move. He wants to sleep here, on Harry’s couch, with Harry lying on top of him. His eyelids feel like there are dead weights attached to them. He honestly doesn’t think he’ll be able to make it to Harry’s bed without collapsing on the way there.

He opens his eyes when he feels Harry’s weight leave him. He makes grabby hands, wanting Harry to just lie back on top of him. It feels cold without him.

Harry laughs softly when he sees his hands reaching for him. He returns quickly, wiping the mess on Louis' stomach with his shirt, before helping Louis stand up.

By some miracle, they reach the bed. Louis collapses on the bed, too tired to even get under the covers, and Harry walks to the other side of the bed, getting under the covers before rolling towards Louis and putting an arm around him.

Louis falls asleep to the feeling of Harry’s arm around his waist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU where Harry is a famous actor, Louis is the scriptwriter who’s been pining for ages, and Eleanor is the friend everyone wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short, the next one will be longer, i promise

The sun isn’t even up in the sky when Louis opens his eyes.

There is warmth against his back, but the rest of him feels cold—the result of choosing to just collapse on the bed instead of getting under the covers before going to sleep.

Even though his head is pounding, he knows who’s lying behind him, still deep in sleep. He wants to fall back to sleep, wants to let Harry’s steady breaths calm him, but he doesn’t give in.

He knows that when Harry wakes, they’ll have an awkward talk. Harry will probably tell him not to say anything to the media—not that he would, otherwise, it’s just that Harry is the kind to take precaution—and when Louis promises not to mention anything, Harry will probably try to kick him out of the penthouse in the nicest way possible.

Louis doesn’t want to be there when Harry wakes.

He doesn’t want to be there when Harry realizes that instead of picking up someone hot and famous at the party, he picked Louis instead, who, even though he’s the head scriptwriter, is still just a scriptwriter.

Harry Styles is way out of his league, and he would prefer not to be there when Harry realizes that.

With a heavy heart—and a pounding head—Louis carefully removes Harry’s arm from its position across his stomach. He slips out of bed slowly, not wanting to wake Harry in the process. Louis knows the talk would just be more awkward if Harry woke up to him leaving.

Louis finds his clothes scattered in the living room and a pad of paper on the coffee table. He writes “Don’t worry, I won’t tell” quickly, making sure his handwriting is legible, before walking back to the bedroom and putting the piece of paper on the nightstand.

After a moment’s hesitation, he writes “We should do this again sometime, if you’re up to it”. Louis puts a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol he found in Harry’s kitchen drawer on the nightstand, near his note, before he walks away.

He leaves the penthouse quickly, stepping into the elevator silently.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU where Harry is a famous actor, Louis is the scriptwriter who’s been pining for ages, and Eleanor is the friend everyone wants to be.

When Louis next sees Harry, he tenses.

He’s seated in front of his laptop in his bigger-than-usual cubicle when he looks up, sees the cast of Behind the Flag, and blushes to the roots of his hair. He tenses when he sees Harry, barely stopping himself from running away when Harry looks up and their eyes meet.

Harry stops walking, tension radiating from him. He’s probably still wary of him, Louis thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth, and even though Louis is kind of offended that Harry thinks he can’t keep a promise, he also kind of understands why Harry is the way he is.

After a few seconds, it occurs to Louis that he should probably stop making eye contact with the one man who doesn’t want to see him, so he looks back down to his laptop, where a brand new script is being written. He knows there is no point in trying to continue writing—his concentration’s been ripped to pieces—so instead, he stares at his laptop instead, stares and stares and stares until the words become blurry.

When he looks up, Harry is no longer there. It’s just as well—if he was still there and Louis accidentally made eye contact with him again, well. It’s just better for everyone this way.

Look, Louis is aware that he just possibly ruined things between him and Harry—professionally speaking, of course. It’s not like it’s his fault—if his memory serves him right, they were both kissing each other and they both came—and it’s not like he meant for this to happen. It’s not just Harry who’s affected by the whole thing as well—Louis still remembers the taste of Harry in his mouth and the way he feels under his hands. He can barely focus on anything anymore without thinking of that time they spent on Harry’s couch.

It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since that encounter, and already, Louis wants more.

“Are you done yet?”

Louis looks up and sees Eleanor, her normally perfectly-styled hair anything but. She looks deathly pale and there are bags under her eyes. Louis winces in sympathy. “Did you get some sleep?”

Eleanor’s head disappears from the top of the cubicle divider, and after a few seconds, she walks into Louis' cubicle, taking a seat by the entryway. “Not enough,” she says, her voice low. She closes her eyes and leans her head back. “I shouldn’t have tried to drink more than Zayn. I have so many regrets,” she groans.

Louis chuckles as he reaches into a drawer, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol. “Here,” he says, handing Eleanor the bottle of pills.

Eleanor cracks one eye open. She sees the bottle and she smiles, immediately taking it. “You’re a godsend.”

“What can I say? I’m a blessing,” Louis says, shrugging. He takes the bottle of Tylenol when Eleanor hands it back to him, putting it back in his drawer.

“I want to roll my eyes, but unfortunately, I don’t think that will help with the headache,” Eleanor says matter-of-factly. She gestures toward the open file on Louis' screen. “Are you done yet? I want to write my half of the script so I can go home early and get some rest.”

Louis looks at his screen, sighing. “I don’t think I’ll get much done today,” he confesses. “Sorry, El.”

“I’ll work with what you have,” Eleanor says, standing up. “Email me the file. I’ll be at my desk.”

“Thanks,” Louis calls out, grateful.

“Not so loud, sheesh!” she replies from her cubicle, and Louis laughs when he remembers that Eleanor—along with mostly everyone else—has a horrible hangover and is most likely sensitive to loud noise.

“I can hear you laughing. You’re a shit friend,” Eleanor grumbles.

Louis doesn’t pay Eleanor’s insult any mind—they’ve been friends for such a long time that insults are no longer offensive. Instead, insults have become their way of telling each other they care and that they’re there for each other.

He met Eleanor five years ago, when they were part of the team of writers for Relevance. They’d quickly hit it off, and now, five years later, they’re still best friends. They’ve become a writing team of their own—they rarely work without the other, too used to each other’s methods and support.

Quickly, he sends Eleanor the script, grateful that she offered to finish the script for him even while being bothered by a hangover.

Louis' heart stops.

There, in his inbox, is an email from Harry.

His heart starts beating quicker than what could be considered healthy and his palms start to sweat. Louis knows he shouldn’t be nervous—it’s probably just Harry making sure that he won’t tell the media anything, after all—but he can’t stop his heart from beating double-time, can’t stop the dread that’s quickly filling him.

Louis takes a deep breath. Then, he opens the email.

 

Did you really mean it?

-H

 

Dread leaves him, replaced by confusion. What does Harry mean?

 

What do you mean?

-L

 

Harry’s reply is quick. Louis stops himself from hoping that Harry’s just seated somewhere, waiting for his reply—it’s more likely that Harry just happens to have his email open while he’s doing something else.

 

You said we should do it again sometime if I’m up to it. Did you mean that?

-H

 

His heart really shouldn’t be beating this fast—it cannot possibly be healthy.

Louis types quickly, unwilling to back down from the silent challenge he knows Harry is presenting him.

 

I do. Why, do you want to meet tonight?

-L

 

Harry’s response is immediate.

 

Are you free tonight?

-H

 

 

Before Louis could hesitate, he replies.

 

 

Yes.

-L


	4. Chapter 4

The whole thing starts at a party in one of the more known clubs in uptown London, a celebration because finally, BBC picked up their first season. The writers celebrate with shots of tequila, the actors drink too much and dance too little, and the producers spend the night red from too much vodka.

Louis drinks too many shots of tequila, and on his way from the bathroom, he sees Harry in the middle of the dance floor, sweaty. An idea—a good one, in drunk-Louis' opinion—forms in his mind, and he stalks over to Harry, kissing the hell out of him when he finally reaches him.

To say that he is surprised when Harry kisses him back is a gross understatement. His hands are suddenly everywhere, and Louis finds that he wants to take whatever he can from this man.

Even while drunk, he doesn’t fool himself into believing that this is more than just a one-night stand.

The night ends with Louis in Harry’s bed, Harry’s arm around him. They’re both tired and they’re both satisfied, and when the morning comes, Louis leaves.

Their thing—whatever it is—doesn’t stop there, however.

That night, Louis takes a shower at his apartment before heading to Harry’s. Louis spends the elevator ride consumed in his own thoughts, and when the elevator doors open, Harry immediately pulls him outside and kisses him hard.

The elevator doors close, and Harry pins him to it, his body a long line of heat against Louis'. He kisses the way he acts—with all of his attention, his actions sure and precise.

Again, they don’t make it to the bed.

Instead, Harry pins Louis against the elevator doors and takes him in his mouth, his green eyes focused on Louis' face all the while. Louis knows this because he never takes his eyes off Harry, even though the urge to close his eyes is strong. He focuses on Harry’s ruby red lips, the way they look deliciously ravished, wrapped around his cock. He focuses on the way Harry’s tongue feels against the tip of him, rough and providing just enough friction to keep Louis wanting more.

Louis is not even naked, and neither is Harry. Louis would like to think that they’re both too excited to actually make time for something as mundane as removing clothes, but he knows that it’s more likely that Harry just wants him gone from the penthouse as fast as possible.

He doesn’t blame him. Harry’s so far out of his league, they might as well be in different universes.

The urge to spread his legs even wider hits him with such force, it’s actually quite dizzying. Louis can’t, though—he didn’t remove his jeans fully, and they’re trapping him, stopping him from what he wants to do.

When he comes, he shouts himself hoarse. There’s no need to be worried—he knows Harry’s place is soundproof. He’s surprised when he looks at Harry and sees him swallow his come.

Louis has no doubt that if he could, he would have gone rock hard again from just that one action.

Harry meets his eyes, and Louis sees almost no green, only black. Harry’s eyes are dark with arousal, his lips ruby red from spending time wrapped around Louis' dick, and Louis knows he’s ruined for everyone else.

With careful hands, Harry tucks Louis' cock back inside his briefs, standing up right after. He kisses Louis, and Louis tastes himself on Harry’s tongue—salty and bitter. It’s actually hotter than he expected, and he lets his hands roam Harry’s body—his arms, his shoulders, his face.

A few seconds later and Louis finds his arms pinned against the elevator doors, Harry taking advantage of their height difference by holding Louis' arms above his head with two hands.

It’s really a bit absurd how Louis wants to get hard again, not even a full fifteen minutes after he just came.

Harry’s lips make their way to the side of Louis' neck, kissing and licking and sucking the expanse of his skin, his lips discovering sensitive areas Louis wasn’t aware of, before. Louis tilts his head for easier access, moaning when Harry’s lips reach the area just between the back of his earlobe and his jawbone.

“Harry,” he struggles to say as Harry keeps sucking on the sensitive area. He shivers when Harry whispers, “what is it?” his breath warm on Louis' neck.

Louis breathes in, trying to find the courage in him to tell Harry to relax and let Louis get him off, only to realize what a mistake he has done when he smells Harry’s expensive aftershave, minty and masculine. He groans.

When Harry’s lips resume sucking on his skin, he moans and remembers that oh, he was supposed to say something.

“Let me take care of you,”he breathes out when he catches his breath.

Harry goes stock-still for a moment, and in that second, Louis panics, trying to figure out what he said wrong. Should he back away, now? Should he go?

He relaxes when Harry practically melts against him and whispers, “yes. Please.”

Slowly, Harry releases Louis' hands from his iron grip, his hands moving downward until they’re resting on his hips. Louis unbuckles Harry’s belt, his hands swift yet sure, and immediately lets them fall. He reaches into Harry’s boxers and pulls out his cock, hard and red and leaking, and lets himself look, just for a little while. It’s not overly long—it’s just right—but it is thick. Already, Louis' mouth waters at the thought of Harry’s cock inside him.

Now’s not the time for that, though.

He gets Harry to come with a few slow pulls, his thumb making sure to rub at the slit every now and then. When Harry comes, he groans, a low guttural sound that comes from the back of his throat. Louis watches as Harry rides the waves of orgasm, his eyes closed and his hands gripping Louis' hips tightly, and thinks that he’s even more beautiful here, half-naked with his dick hanging out of his dark blue boxers, than in movie premieres, wearing expensive watches and even more expensive suits.

Catching his breath, Harry lets his head fall on Louis' shoulder.

“You should stay the night,” Harry says after a few moments spent in silence.

Louis doesn’t know what to say. He already knows that what they’re doing is a ridiculously bad idea, and that they cannot worsen it by inviting each other to stay the night, but there is a part in him that wants to say yes to everything Harry asks him to do.

“Yes,” he says, because he’s apparently a masochist, and soon enough, he and Harry are naked under the sheets, Harry’s arm around him as they both sleep.

Louis does stay the night, but he doesn’t stay and wait for Harry to wake up. Instead, he finds out that Harry sleeps like the dead as he slips out from under his arm.

He leaves before the sun even appears in the London skyline.


	5. Chapter 5

Eleanor’s eyes are wide when she exclaims, “what?”

Louis quickly makes shushing motion by pressing a finger to his lips.

“Sorry,” she meekly says. After a few seconds, she hits Louis upside the head.

“What was that for?” Louis asks, wincing in pain.

“For not telling me sooner!” Eleanor says, crossing her arms. “Honestly, Louis. We’ve been best friends for a long time.”

Rolling his eyes, Louis glances at the printed script in his hands before tossing it on his desk. He sits up straight and puts his right ankle on top of his left knee. “It hasn’t even been going on for very long, El. The first time was just the day before yesterday.”

Eleanor shrugs, leaning against the cubicle’s blue wall divider. “Still. I mean, you’ve had a crush on this guy for so long, you’d think you’d tell me you had sex with the guy just a minute after you’re finished.”

It’s true. He has had a crush on Harry since four years ago, when he got commissioned to write six episodes of Assassins. Harry was part of the main cast, and Louis vividly remembers making time to watch the shoot—to watch Harry in his element.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Louis says, red tainting his cheeks.

Eleanor’s laugh is loud and carefree enough to send a dozen or so crew members standing up from their seats in their respective cubicles, trying to see where the noise had come from. Louis raises his eyebrows at Eleanor.

She has the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry,” she says, and immediately, heads disappear from above wall dividers.

“So what kind of agreement do you guys have? What are you?” Eleanor asks, an eyebrow raised.

Louis shrugs. “Friends? Boyfriends? Whatever’s in between? I don’t really know, El, it’s a little complicated.”

Eleanor hums under her breath, thoughtful, before nodding to herself. “So fuckbuddies, then.”

It’s not the friendliest term, but Louis supposes it’s the most accurate one. “I think so,” he says slowly, still a little unsure. “We’ve only done it twice, though, so I don’t want to presume.”

Laughing, Eleanor shakes her head. “Louis,” she says when she’s caught her breath, “there isn’t a level you need to pass or something. This isn’t a game. Calling him a fuckbuddy isn’t an achievement you get after having sex with the guy a certain number of times.”

The blush on Louis' cheeks reddens even more. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to call it being ‘friends with benefits’ instead?”

“You’re not friends,” Eleanor says.

Louis sighs.


	6. Chapter 6

Apparently, because this is his life now, Eleanor is a shit friend.

Louis is seated near the glass windows of the coffee shop across the street, enjoying his tea, when Sophia sits down beside him, an eyebrow raised.

He takes one look at her and groans. He knows she knows.

“Eleanor told you, didn’t she?” he asks, afraid of the answer even though he already knows what Sophia’s answer’s going to be.

Sophia nods before putting her green tea on the table before them. “She said she had your permission to tell me.”

The thing is that Louis doesn’t know. The whole conversation he had with Eleanor is a blur in his head, something he just wants to forget until the day he dies, and he remembers nothing but Eleanor saying “fuckbuddies” and “you’re not friends”.

He also remembers nodding at anything Eleanor said after, too busy being consumed in his own thoughts.

Damn it.

Louis sighs. “What do you want to know?”

“Nothing,” Sophia says, shaking her head.

Louis gives her his 'are you kidding me' look, unimpressed.

Sophia raises her hands in a defensive pose. “I’m serious! I don’t want to know anything!” she exclaims. “Calm yourself. Good god.”

Louis groans. “Since you know, I’m guessing Liam knows. Since he knows, he probably told Zayn, and Zayn probably told Niall.”

Sophia blinks once, twice, three times, before nodding.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Look, if it worries you that much, I’ll make sure that no one else knows about it,” Sophia says, shrugging. Louis watches her get her cup of tea from the table and blow on it for a few seconds before taking a small sip.

“I wouldn’t be worried if it was just me,” Louis says, putting his tea on the table. “It’s just that Ha—his reputation is at stake, here.”  
Sophia nods as she puts her cup back on the table. “I understand. We all do, actually. Don’t worry too much.”

“Sophia, you’re a make-up artist. You deal with the actors. If you say just one word about this, it’s going to be dangerous for him. Liam’s a camera operator—he can’t talk during shooting. Niall’s a sound editor and Zayn’s an editor—they don’t work closely with the cast. I’m not really worried about them.”

“It will be fine.” Sophia waves her hand in a motion that Louis thinks is meant to say “don’t worry too much”.

Louis sighs before taking a sip of his tea. He finds that it doesn’t taste as good when he has friends around talking to him about Harry.

Sophia quirks her lips in an almost-smile. “If I were him, I would date you in a heartbeat.”

“Not again,” he groans. “We’ve had this conversation a hundred times.”

She shrugs. “I’m serious! I mean, you’re not friends or anything, but the first thing you thought about when you found out that we knew was Harry,” she says, lowering her voice so nearby patrons wouldn’t hear their conversation. “You’re more concerned for him than you should be, and I think that’s sweet.”

Of course Sophia would think it’s sweet. Louis thinks it’s more along the lines of pathetic, really.

“Thanks,” he says instead, because what else can he say?


	7. Chapter 7

It becomes familiar, as time passes by.

By now, Louis knows how to make Harry scream. He knows where Harry is most sensitive, which part to kiss if he wants their time together to last. His mind is filled with information about Harry—how he loves his hair being pulled on, how his nipples are sensitive.

It’s not just those kinds of information Louis remembers, though. His mind is also filled with other things, like how Harry prefers his tea with a shit-ton of sugar despite trying to eat healthy, or how Harry sleeps like the dead.

Harry’s always kind enough to offer breakfast the next morning. Sometimes, Louis stays. Sometimes, he doesn’t. Always, he tries to remember as much as he can of the time he spends with Harry.

They never have sex in Harry’s bedroom. It’s partly because sometimes, they’re too far gone to actually care about making it there, but it’s mostly because Louis tries his best to stop Harry from pulling him into the bedroom.

The thing is that Harry’s bedroom is his space, and Louis doesn’t want to intrude. Don’t get him wrong, the penthouse is gorgeous with its modern design and its expensive fixtures, but all the rooms combined cannot quite compare to Harry’s bedroom, with its soft bed and even softer sheets.

Despite the beauty of Harry’s place, Louis has to believe that Harry’s bedroom is the most beautiful of all the rooms, simply because it’s the coziest and homiest of them all.

And Louis doesn’t think he belongs there, in Harry’s one private space in a world that does its best to uncover as much about Harry as it can.

Slowly, they get to know each other a little more through short conversations before and after sex. Harry learns about Louis' dog Bruce, and Louis meets Pip, Harry’s cat.

They’re not yet friends with benefits material, and they’re certainly not friends, but Louis likes to think that they’re getting there. Of course, it might just be wishful thinking on his part, but there’s nothing wrong with being a little optimistic.

Is there?  
******************************************

 

Harry rubs a tired hand down his face. “Oh. Hey, Louis.”

Louis steps out of the elevator. “The doorman let me in.”

He’s been to Harry’s place so many times that all the doormen know him. It’s actually kind of sad, if he thinks about it, because all the doormen probably think that he and Harry are together. Louis can’t tell them otherwise because it would be pretty weird if he just came up to them one day and just tell them out of the blue, not to mention that there’s no harm in letting them think it.

He’s pathetic. He knows that. That’s why he tries not to think about the entire thing.

“You called me a while ago,” Louis says, following Harry into the kitchen. The kitchen is immaculately clean, all white tiles and aluminum appliances. Louis can smell something cooking in the kitchen, and his stomach grumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since lunch.

Harry smiles at him, but it’s not the usual bright one he always has in front of the cameras or the genuine one he flashes Louis when they’re having simple conversation. It’s tired, a little sad, and a little forced. Louis finds that he doesn’t want to see it on Harry’s face again, ever.

“Sorry,” Harry says, regret coloring his tone. “I don’t know why I called you. I’m honestly really tired.”

Louis pastes a smile on his face. “That’s okay,” he tries to say with as much enthusiasm as he can. “I’ll just leave now and let you rest.”

“No.” Harry clears his throat. “I mean, you can stay if you want to. I made you go all this way, after all. Are you hungry?”

Louis needs to shake his head and go. He needs to leave the penthouse, needs to go back to his own apartment and eat alone. He needs to forget Harry’s hopeful face and his smile and everything he remembers about him.

He needs to stop himself from getting more attached than he already is.

Needs are different from wants, though, and there’s nothing Louis can do but nod. “Starving, actually,” he says.

The heart wants what it wants, he supposes.

Harry shoots him a bright smile before he directs his focus back on the stove where a pot sits. Louis sits down at a small dining table meant for four people that he knows costs more than it should and looks as Harry moves confidently in his own kitchen, hands sure and steady as they take bottles of spice and various kitchen utensils.

He looks at home here—peaceful. It’s nothing compared to the Harry he sees talking to the media or the Harry who poses for pictures on the red carpet, and Louis feels grateful—blessed, even—that he gets to see this, this part of Harry only few get to see.

It’s entirely possible that he’s more into Harry than he should be, given their arrangement, but it’s so hard to remember that when all he wants to do is walk towards Harry and put his arms around him as he tries to look over Harry’s shoulder to find out what he’s cooking.

If Eleanor were here, Louis is sure she would have smacked him upside the head by now.

“What are you cooking?” asks Louis as he tries to distract himself from his thoughts.

“Pesto and sizzling tofu,” Harryy answers.

Louis nods. “Sounds delicious,” he offers.

Harry looks over his shoulder—at Louis—briefly, and says, “it is. My mum taught me this recipe.”

It’s another piece of information Louis knows he will keep in his mind for a long time.

After a few more minutes, Louis helps Harry with the food. He carefully gets plates from a cabinet and neatly arranges them on the table.

Truth be told, Louis is surprised by how seamlessly they move around the kitchen. He grabs the plates and Harry grabs utensils. He puts pasta in a bowl and Harry puts the sauce.

It’s actually kind of domestic. Sophia would even call it sweet. Louis loves it, of course, because their silence is a comfortable one, one that is borne between people who enjoy each other’s company. As much as he loves it, though, he loves eating across Harry even more—the way it feels natural to just make light conversation in between bites.

“So,” Harry says when he’s finished eating. “How would you rate the meal?”

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he gives Harry a thumbs-up. “It’s good. I’d rate it 20 out of 22 cubes of tofu.”

Surprised, Harry laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight and his dimples prominent. Louis knows that the sound of Harry’s laugh just bumped to number two of his favorite sounds, just slightly behind the noises Harry makes during sex.

“That,” Harry says when he’s caught his breath, “doesn’t even make sense.”

Louis shrugs. “It does to me,” he says, smiling.

He helps Harry wash the dishes and put away the leftovers after a few more minutes of conversation, and later—much, much, later—he kneels in front of Harry and starts mouthing at his hard on through his boxers as Harry closes his eyes and leans his head on the back of the couch.

It’s a pretty good night.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s another late night at the office—Eleanor and Louis are used those things by now that it’s no longer as big a deal as it used to be before. Yes, they still get annoyed at producers who complain about every single thing about the script and yes, they still hate impossible-to-meet deadlines set for rewriting the entire script, but it’s no longer something they complain about.

Instead, they shrug and work in their respective cubicles, looking over the notes some of the producers had written in the margins.

Everything’s silent for a long while until Louis' phone vibrates.

 

Are you free tonight?

-H

 

Louis feels the hot curl of disappointment in his belly.

 

No, sorry. We have to work on the script tonight. The producers only gave us until tomorrow. :/

-L

 

When no reply comes after a few seconds, Louis sighs and redirects his focus on the laptop screen before him. He tiredly rubs his eyes, trying to get his attention back to writing.

He just wants to sleep, really.

Fighting a yawn, he shakes his head and rereads what he has written so far. It’s not up to his usual quality of work, he knows, but it will have to do.

His phone vibrates.

 

I’m sorry. Do you want me to bring you some tea?

-H

 

Louis smiles. Harry’s sweet, really, but he doesn’t have to.

 

You don’t have to. I’ll be fine. Enjoy your night. :)

-L

 

It’s only a few seconds before Harry’s reply comes.

 

I know I don’t have to. I want to, though. I’ll be there in ten.

-H

 

Okay, so it’s pretty much established that Louis is attracted to Harry—has been, for a long time, actually—but this? It’s different. There’s a pleasant sensation curling in his belly and he’s grinning ridiculously widely and it’s different because it makes him feel like he can pretend, even if only for a few minutes, that there’s something more between the two of them. He feels like he can pretend that Harry’s something more than just an actor who’s so very out of his league.

He feels like he can pretend that he’s more than just a fuckbuddy to Harry.

It’s a dangerous road to walk on—he really shouldn’t be giving himself hope when there’s nothing to hope for. If Eleanor knew, she would shake her head woefully, bemoaning the loss of Louis' common sense.

Hell, if he still had his common sense, he would shake his head woefully with her.

He shakes his head and looks back at the script. Harry is horrible for his concentration.

As a writer, Louis possesses the ability to get lost in the act of typing out words to form sentences and paragraphs, to be calmed by the sound of keys clacking as his fingers quickly move on the keyboard. He quickly loses himself in the act of writing—something he’s been doing for as long as he can remember—at least until he hears someone approach his cubicle.

Louis looks over his shoulder, surprised to find Harry leaning against the entryway, two cups of tea in hand.

Harry clears his throat. “I said I’d come here, didn’t I?”

Louis smiles.


	9. Chapter 9

Louis meets Harry on the set of Assassins. He has a pile of printed scripts in his hands as he walks down the hallway and a million and one ideas on how to kill the producers without leaving evidence when he slams into another body.

The printed scripts fall to the floor, and so does he.

“I’m so sorry,” the man before him says, his green eyes expressing genuine sincerity. He holds a hand out for Louis to take, and Louis does, relishing the warm point of contact between the two of them.

“It’s okay,” Louis answers. He bends down to pick up some of the scripts, smiling to himself when he sees the man doing the same. “I’m Louis.”

The man smiles at him as he hands Louis his printed scripts. “I’m Harry.”

Louis nods to himself. Not wanting to let the comfortable silence between them turn awkward, Louis smiles at him and says, “well it’s nice to meet you. I have to go though, so I guess I’ll see you around.”

Harry smiles at him, and Louis walks away.

All thoughts of murder are gone from his thoughts when he walks into the producers’ office, but a ridiculously huge grin is still on his face.

He might have scared the producers a little.  
*******************************************************

 

The moment Louis walks into his cubicle to find Sophia and Eleanor seated side by side, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, he knows—just knows—he’s fucked.

Sighing, he enters the cubicle slowly, putting his laptop bag on his desk. “What do you want to know?”

“Nothing,” the both of them say at the same time, and if Louis wasn’t already scared, he’d be scared now.

Louis knows that showing fear is a weakness—he’s been friends with Sophia and Eleanor for a long enough time to know that—so he raises an eyebrow instead, not giving in to the urge to kneel and beg for mercy.

Sophia glances at Eleanor before directing her gaze back to Louis. “He gave you a cup of tea last night.”

Louis slowly sits down. “Yes?”

Eleanor shrugs. “So what’s up with that?”

“Nothing’s up with that,” he says, shaking his head. “He asked me to come over and I said I couldn’t because we had to work, so he offered to bring me tea. It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything!” Eleanor says, excitement evident on her face. Her eyes are wide with delight when she says, “you’re friends now!”

“To be honest, I don’t really feel like we’re friends,” Louis says, and it’s true. He doesn’t feel like they’re friends, even though he wants so very badly for them to be friends. “He’s just nice, that’s all.”

Sophia shakes her head woefully. Eleanor sighs.

“What?” he asks defensively.

“Nothing,” Sophia says, standing up. “It’s just that we’re both sorry for you.”

Louis furrows his eyebrows. “Why?”

Eleanor takes a rolled-up tabloid from her bag and gives it to Louis before standing up and exiting the cubicle.

Louis is alone when he sees the headline.

 

Actor Harry Styles dating co-star Kendall Jenner? Pictures and more inside!

 

Okay, here’s the thing: Louis doesn’t hate Kendall. He doesn’t have any kind of opinion towards her, to be honest, doesn’t have any kind of clue as to what kind of person she is.

Right now though, as he opens the tabloid for some kind of proof that it’s true, he gets this hot coil of jealousy in his belly and he realizes that he wants to hate her with all of his being. For a moment, he does—hate her, that is—but after a few seconds pass, the boiling rage in him cools down to a simmer when he realizes that he is in absolutely no position to hate her.

Why would he?

He isn’t somebody special in Harry’s life—he’s a little bit of rough on the side, nothing more. There’s no point in being jealous because he was never really in a relationship with Harry, no matter how much he wants it to happen.

Besides, Kendall is perfect for Harry. Louis is smart enough to know when he’s beaten, and in this case, he knows when he’s beaten completely. Kendall is an actress who has been featured on the front page of Elle and Vogue—there’s no way Louis can beat that. She’s the perfect match for Harry, really, with her stunning beauty and her acting awards. Hell, they’re already together onscreen, playing characters who are dating one another—they’ve already won two different best new television relationship polls in the eight months since Behind the Flag started showing on screen—Louis wouldn’t be surprised if they actually made the transition from onscreen relationship to reality, to be perfectly honest.

He even hears that Kendall has a cat as well, damn it.

They’re so perfect together that Louis kind of wants to cry. He’s known for so long that Harry’s out of his league, but it has never hurt this much. He wants to curl up and forget everyone for a little while.

It’s different—realizing he’s in love with Harry and realizing that Harry isn’t in love with him. It’s not like he expected Harry to just magically be attracted to him, but to be fair, it’s not like he expected Harry to start dating someone else, as well.

What hurts even more is that the article says that the pictures were taken yesterday. That whole coffee thing? It turns out that it is just the kind action Harry thoughtfully did, like Louis has been saying this entire time, instead of the something more he was hoping it would be.

Louis hates—just hates—himself for hoping, for being optimistic when he’s tried to tell himself that there’s nothing to be optimistic about.

So yes, he wants to hate Kendall, but he finds that he can’t.

He hates himself instead.


	10. Chapter 10

The cursor seems to mock Louis as it blinks at a steady, repeating beat.

Louis loves his job, really, but right now, he thinks he’s just too tired and too numb to get anything even remotely good done. He wants to go home, lie on his bed, and rethink his decisions.

However, he can’t do that without finishing the script for the season finale.

He doesn’t want to do it, but he has to. This has always been what their team has intended for Harry and Kendall’s characters, and it isn’t fair for everyone if Louis changes the whole dynamic just because he’s too fucking gone to actually acknowledge that what he and Harry had was just an arrangement and nothing more.

The office is dark—everyone else has gone home. Louis is the only scriptwriter in the building. The only light in the floor is the one from his desk lamp and the slight glare of his laptop screen. It’s fitting, the writer part of him thinks, that he’s surrounded by darkness while he’s trying to get the will to type down the words he knows Harry’s character has to say by the season finale.

It’s slightly poetic, and Louis only gets poetic when he’s sad.

He takes a deep breath and places his hands back on his laptop, his fingers poised and ready to hit keys.

"I love you. How can you not know that? I never doubted that, and I must have done something seriously wrong to make you ever doubt that."

 

It hurts, but he continues.

 

"I am so in love with you that sometimes, it actually hurts. Do you know that when we’re together, I ask myself why you’re even with me? It’s true. You’re so goddamn perfect that I don’t even know how I managed to even get near you."

 

Being a writer, Louis knows the keys by heart. He knows where certain letters are located, knows what to press when he has a specific sentence in mind.

It hurts too much to look, so he doesn’t. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and types.

 

"I am in love with you, and only you."

 

When he’s done, Louis quickly closes the file and starts packing his laptop up. He turns the light off and leaves the building, walking in complete darkness.

He’s poetic when he’s sad, yes, but right now he’s just too tired to think.  
*******************************************************

 

Harry doesn’t ask him to come over for a long time. Louis likes to think it’s because of the hectic schedule they have—season finale’s coming up, and there are suddenly a hell of a lot meetings to be in and adjustments to make—but he knows it’s because Harry’s seeing Kendall now. Harry didn’t tell him directly, of course—they’re not friends, after all—but Louis knows he’s dating her through the many tabloids that say the same thing he’s thinking.

So when Harry sends him a text right after a meeting, he is more than a little surprised.

 

Hey. Wanna meet later?

-H

 

Louis makes sure he’s somewhere at least semi-private before he responds.

 

Sure, why not?

-L

 

Instead of feeling happy, something else makes its presence known in the vicinity of his chest when Harry replies.

 

8 pm. My place.

-H

 

Louis pockets his phone as he walks away, towards his cubicle. His gut churns in shame and guilt makes his heart heavy. What is he doing? Harry’s seeing someone else. Louis is a lot of things, but he isn’t someone who condones cheating.

He must seriously be reaching an all new low if he’s actually considering this.

Look, Louis is not stupid. He knows that Harry has a reputation to protect, and no matter how friendly London has been lately to the LGBT community, Louis knows it’s one thing for an actor to say he’s supportive of the LGBT community and quite another to be a part of it.

It’s just one of the many reasons why he’s a secret no one’s supposed to find out about, much less Kendall. The chances of people finding out about him are significantly higher if he risks this—if he still goes through with the whole thing—now, when Harry’s dating Kendall.

Louis chuckles self-deprecatingly. Even while contemplating infidelity, it’s still Harry he’s thinking about and it’s still Harry he’s trying to protect.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

That night, at precisely eight in the evening, he goes home.

He doesn’t sleep until it’s ten.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know much about the uk so i apologize if there's any mistakes with the tv channels or locations

Louis does his best to hide from Harry the next day. It’s not exactly a hard thing to do—it’s the last day of shooting, and Harry, being one of the main actors, barely has time for a chat.

He knows Harry is confused—he has said as much in the many texts he had sent Louis the night before—and he knows that if Harry grabs hold of him for even a second, he’ll start asking questions.

And Louis doesn’t know if he’ll be able to answer the questions.

A few weeks ago, an invitation was emailed to him—an offer to write five episodes for the hit AMC show Yellow Brick. Back then, he was still torn as to whether he should or shouldn’t accept the offer. Now, however, Louis doesn’t see himself doing anything other than accepting the offer and flying to their offices in downtown Birmingham.

He’s packing his laptop up when he senses her presence. Slowly, he zips the bag, then stands up straight and turns around. “Hey,” he says, smiling.

Eleanor smiles at him as well, but it’s nothing like her usual dazzling one. This is a sad smile, and Louis knows Eleanor just wants to hug him right now. “So you’re leaving, huh?”

He nods. “I’ll still come back if BBC approves season two,” he says, trying to assure her.

“I know that,” Eleanor says, her voice soft. “You created the whole concept of this show. Of course you’ll be back for season two.”

A few seconds pass, then Eleanor walks over to him and engulfs him in a hug. Louis hugs her back, knowing that he will miss her when he’s in Birmingham.

Louis closes his eyes. “It’s been so long since I worked without you,” he whispers.

Eleanor stays silent for a little while before pulling back and looking at Louis, her gaze searching. “How badly do you want to go?” she whispers as if afraid to taint the silence with sound.

Tears are starting to well in his eyes. Louis refuses to let them fall down his cheeks. “How badly does he want me to stay?” he says, his voice sounding weak to his ears.

No words are needed to be spoken for each of them to know that Harry doesn’t care if he stays or goes.

Eleanor nods slowly. “Need me to help?”

Louis nods, taking his laptop bag from his desk. “Feed Bruce, okay?”

“I will,” Eleanor says.

When Louis leaves his cubicle, he kisses Eleanor on the cheek and says, “thank you.”

There’s nothing else to be done, really. He had taken care of everything last night, when he couldn’t sleep. His letter regarding his short leave had been sent to personnel, clothes had been packed, and his flight had been booked.

He should be going home. There’s nothing else to do here.

His feet take him somewhere else though, and too soon, he finds himself in one of the studios, near enough to watch Harry act—near enough to watch Harry be in his element—but far enough to not be noticed by the actors.

Without even hearing a line, he already knows what scene it is.

It’s Harry and Kendall’s scene. It’s the scene.

Why did Louis think it would be a good idea to see Harry one last time, again?

Watching Harry hold Kendall’s hands in his, a sincere expression on his face—it’s more painful than it has any right to be, Louis thinks. He thought writing the scene was hard, but in reality, writing the lines is no match to hearing Harry say them to Kendall.

“I love you. How can you not know that? I never doubted that, and I must have done something seriously wrong to make you ever doubt that,” Harry says, pain crossing his features. “I am so in love with you that sometimes, it actually hurts. Do you know that when we’re together, I ask myself why you’re even with me? It’s true. You’re so goddamn perfect that I don’t even know how I managed to even get near you.”

Louis watches Harry take a deep breath. “I am in love with you, and only you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession, something intimate and something Louis shouldn’t be hearing despite the fact that the words came from him.

So he leaves.

He walks away, farther and farther until he can’t hear Kendall and Harry’s voices.

He doesn’t look back.


	12. Chapter 12

Birmingham is beautiful.

Louis has been there before, of course, but it’s a different experience when all he wants to do is go back home to London. 

In his spare time, Louis writes more poems than he can count. Poetry is easier to come to him when he’s all alone in an overpopulated city, he finds out. Some of the loneliness, he tries to convey to Eleanor on their many conversations, but some, he lets out through poetry—through rhythm and rhyme and ink on paper.

It’s been too long since he’s last written anything by hand.

One day, he receives a call from Eleanor. There is joy in her voice and excitement is keeping her from making much sense at first, but when she calms down enough to tell him what’s going on, Louis smiles.

“They’re keeping us for season two!” she shouts, and it’s actually a little too loud against his ear, but he finds that he can’t quite remove the phone from his ear.

He smiles, happy. “That’s awesome!” he says, letting his excitement seep into the tone of his voice.

“When we got the news that BBC chose not to continue Access, we honestly got a bit nervous because they had one of the highest ratings,” says Eleanor, and she still sounds breathless with excitement, “but then they announced that we’re in! We’re in, Louis!”

Louis' grin is wide. “That’s amazing, El.”

“We’re having drinks tomorrow night,” she says, her voice steadier. “You should come.”

The smile on Louis' face fades fast. “El,” he says softly, pleading, “you know I can’t.”

Eleanor sighs. Choosing not to argue, she says, “when are you coming back?”

Louis sits down on the couch. “In a few weeks.”

“Harry…he’s asking about you—where you’ve gone, why you’re not answering his texts.”

Closing his eyes, Louis leans his head on the couch cushions. “Who did he ask?”

“Me,” Eleanor replies.

“What did you tell him?”

Louis can practically see Eleanor shrug. “The truth,” she says. “Why haven’t you been answering his texts?”

“I don’t see why I should,” he says.

“Stop running,” Eleanor says, quick to the point, before hanging up.

Eleanor’s right, of course—she always is. He is running, trying to avoid whatever reminds him of Harry, and to be honest, he’s tired. He wants to stop running and just rest, wants to just go back home without feeling a stab of pain in his chest.

It’s not Harry’s fault. Louis shouldn’t be punishing him—because that’s what he’s doing, right? Punishing him? Harry, being the kind person that he is, probably thinks he did something wrong, when really, he’s not to blame—because of something he didn't do.

It’s time to mend some broken bridges, he thinks.

 

Hey. Sorry for not replying. I’m fine, don’t worry. It’s not your fault, either. I just had some things to think about. Don’t worry too much.

-L

 

He’s surprised when his phone vibrates not even two minutes later.

 

How are you?

-H

Louis thinks about what he should say for a few seconds. Should he tell Harry that he’s okay?

In the end, he opts for the truth.

 

I’m not yet okay, but I’m getting there.

And though it hurts, he adds:

How’s Kendall? :)

-L

 

Louis lies down on the couch, knowing that the texting session will last long.

 

Why are you asking about her?

-H

 

He frowns. What?

 

Nothing. I just thought I’d be polite…?

-L

 

 

Oh. She’s fine. Why, do you want her number?

-H

 

Now, Louis is even more confused.

 

 

Why would I ask for her number?

-L

 

I don’t know. You seem interested, though.

-H

 

I’m not.

-L

 

That’s good to know. When are you coming back?

-H

Louis smiles.

 

You’ll know when I’m there, I guess.

-L


	13. Chapter 13

The club is too loud and too crowded.

Louis is grinning widely when he sees Sophia and Eleanor drinking shots of vodka. He doesn’t even try to compete with the noise in the club—he just waits for them to see him.

“You’re home early!” Eleanor exclaims, a bit more than tipsy if the way she’s unsteady on her feet is any indication.

Sophia grins at him. She’s not yet drunk, but she’s getting there. “You should go see Harry!”

Louis smiles, nodding. He really should.

After half an hour of trying to locate Harry in the crowded club, he sighs in relief when he sees Harry alone in a booth, a bottle of beer in his hand. “Hey,” he greets, taking a seat beside Harry.

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’re here,” he states.

Louis nods slowly. “Yes, I’m here.”

Seeing Harry again makes Louis want him. There is an urge to just pull Harry in and start kissing him, to just go to Harry’s place and suck him dry, to wring out moans he hasn’t heard in a long time.

He stops himself, but only just.

Harry looks like he can’t quite believe his eyes. “You’re really here,” he breathes out, and in a second, he has Louis' face in his hands and Louis' lips under his, mouth opening as Harry’s tongue asks for permission for entrance.

The kiss is hot and desperate, and not too soon, Louis is almost lying on the seat, Harry lying on top of him with his mouth on his neck. Louis' hands are roaming Harry’s back, wanting to touch as much as he can.

“Wait,” Louis breathes out.

Harry immediately stops kissing his neck, but he doesn’t leave him, doesn’t get up and sit straight and try to look composed and not like he had just been kissing another man. “What is it?” he says in between pants.

As much as Louis wants to continue down this road, he knows he shouldn’t. “What about Kendall?” he asks, not making any effort to move back into a sitting position.

“What about her?” Harry asks, and Louis wants to tear his hair out in frustration. Is Harry really going to make him spell it out for him?

“What do you mean, ‘what about her’? You’re dating her!” he exclaims, frustration coloring his tone.

Harry furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Uhh, what do you mean? I’m not dating her.”

Louis' heart—his traitorous, traitorous heart—leaps and starts beating in a speed that isn’t quite healthy. “You aren’t?” he asks, his voice small.

Harry sits up, and Louis does the same. Running his fingers through his hair, he says, “wait, did you think Kendall and I were together?”

Slowly, Louis nods.

“We’re not. How could we be together when I was so distracted by you?” he asks, chuckling to himself.

Louis' heart beats even faster. The club and the people has faded—all that remains now is this booth and Harry. “Distracted?”

Harry lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes on the beer bottle. “I have been since Assassins, actually. When you came home with me that night, I swear I felt like I was on cloud nine. And then I woke up and you weren’t there, and my heart honestly broke.”

For the first time in a long time, Louis is wordless. He doesn’t know what to say or how to react—right now, he’s stunned, because one thing’s for sure, and it’s that surprised doesn’t even hope to cover what the hell he’s feeling right now, seated beside Harry.

“And then the whole thing started,” continues Harry, “and I wanted so very badly to have even just moments with you that I agreed to the whole sex with no strings attached thing even though I wanted something more.”

Louis finds his voice. “I’ve liked you since Assassins too. I honestly thought you and Kendall were together. There was a time when you didn’t call me for months, and all the tabloids were saying that you were dating her.”

Harry grins. “Don’t ever listen to the tabloids.”

Louis smiles. “I know that now.”

“Kendall told me that you weren’t as into it as I was,” he confesses, regret making itself known on his face, “and at the time, I thought that was true. I mean, you almost always left before breakfast, and you just didn’t seem interested. She said I should probably leave you alone for a while, and I agreed.”

Shaking his head, Louis frowns. “It’s not that. It’s never that.”

“People have told me I slept like the dead,” Harry says.

Louis nods. “I’ve seen you sleep. I can confirm that.”

“I actually got a lot more sensitive,” Harry says softly, sadness coloring his tone. “I became more sensitive to you leaving, did you know that?”

Louis swallows. “No,” he replies. “I thought we had to keep everything really secret because you were afraid I’d be horrible to your reputation if the media found out.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t give a damn what they say about you.”

Louis knows that now. He chooses not to say it out loud.

After a few seconds of silence, Harry speaks.

“So,” Harry says slowly, unsure, “are we good?”

Louis nods.

“Can I kiss you now?”

Louis smiles.

******************************************************

That night, they have sex in Harry’s bedroom for the first time.

Louis stays for breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was the last chapter!! I was wondering if I should make a sequel or something? I have some ideas for one..


End file.
